The Devito Origins
by Johnswelsh
Summary: Crack Fic- A Mick Rawson Ethan Krieg RP between me and whereismystrawberrytart. Danny Devito is involved.
1. Chapter 1

A Mick Rawson + Ethan Krieg RP between me and whereismystrawberrytart. Danny Devito is involved.

Work Text:

Detroit.

This is the rougher area, and honestly it isn't far above a level that could get it labeled as the projects. Regardless of the grit and the stigma, however, this is home for many people. Among these is a man who can't quite call anywhere home for very long without getting itchy feet. His name is Ethan Krieg, and it's safe to say his life has taken more twists than a b-grade action movie at this point. No man should feel this akin to Jason Bourne, and to be quite frank he's running out of jokes to make on the matter. Serves him right for starting that trend in the first place.

This evening is a relaxed one, in all honesty. With no pressing job to plan out that can't wait until tomorrow or even later next week and no obligations this evening, Ethan is busying himself with something that doesn't seem to befit his character at first glance or conversation.

He's in a parking lot before a large multi-storied public housing building. The ramp leading up to it is shoddy, literally poured as cement over the old stairs when the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed. A metal pole with one support at each end and only one in the middle graces one side. Three boys ranging from 13 up to about 17 are with him, running a sort of obstacle course he has set up and marked out for them as they practice the skills he's teaching. In some way, he hopes making himself available from time to time might discourage them from heading straight for a gang once they're out of school. He's also made it clear he won't teach anyone ANYTHING if they drop before graduating. Whatever leverage it takes, really.

One by one, they sprint up the ramp and twist to the right, grabbing onto the railing to swing through and under without touching the ground, releasing and then landing gracefully into a crouch to take off at a run a mere moment later. Of course, they're knew at this, and they aren't perfect. There's a lot of near misses and several stumbles. He encourages them never the less.

"Good! Good work. Try arcing your back a little bit more when you twist under, though." His voice is devoid of regional accent, the standard one heard on TV from Americans and nothing more. He's spot-on average height for a man, meaning in all honesty he's rather short in comparison with how things have been changing since the last measurement was taken of the population. He's slim and built for motion over power, his body posture somehow relaxed but ready to spring at the same time. Like a scorpion, he is never to be underestimated in speed or reaction time.

He was bloody lost again.

Not that that wasn't expected from a Welshman who couldn't direct himself out of a two sided pipe.

At least here, in some shoddy ass side of town, he didn't stick out. Except for the accent but when he kept his mouth shut it made things a lot easier. He wasn't the best at imitating an American accent, the Welsh far too thick and honestly he couldn't even pass as a good British tourist. And hell, in this area, it was best that he just forced himself to blend in.

Which was why public housing was probably an ideal location to stuff himself for a while until the time was needed for him to throw his ass out and move on. Or at least until he figured out where the fuck he was.

He was a sniper both by trade and by mind, so taller buildings are ideal and almost like home, but in this area the best he could get that wasn't either a drug house or an apartment building. Here, he could happily sneak to the roof, maybe do a bit of scouting, and knock off for a bit of rest.

He had managed to stuff everything he had in a small duffle; there was no way he was leaving anything valuable in his car and with a pace that betrayed his state, he marched up when the sound of some kind of ruckus, leaning around the edge of the building to see some kind of whackaddo happening there, but as always, curiosity caught the better of him and he couldn't help but watch and find it somewhat alarming that a couple of school grade kids were hanging around with a man who looked thrice their ages.

"Well that's weird," he commented, slightly confused as to what the ever loving fuck they were doing.

"I-"

What the fuck is he supposed to say? Thank you for being the hundredth person to comment on my hair. Yes, I am very aware of how terrible it is, thank you oh so very much. You try bein' 'omeless and without warm watcher for weeks on end, yeah?

The suddenly friendliness sends a sort of uncomfortable shiver down his spine. Maybe he just wasn't used to it. Maybe this guy just creeped the fuck out of him. Whatever.

But then again, there was the prospect of making friends. And friends were always nice. Friends didn't kill you. Usually.

"Um, thank you?" he responded, blinking a few moments and trying very, very hard to ignore the comment about his hair. Snipers, all of them with their bruised egos and easy to hurt feelings. Fuck feelings. "You from around 'ere, then, yeah? 'M 'friad I'm a bit lost. Mick by the way."

Best to be friendly, right? This guy looked like he could easily take Mick out. And honestly he liked breathing and walking and all the other perks of being alive.

Friends might kill if the going gets rough, but it's a damn good thing Ethan Krieg doesn't have any friends. Nobody gets that name, and nobody gets to stay around long enough to earn it. He's pleasant in the same way towards anyone who can keep up with him, so here's hoping he takes a liking to Mick.

"I'm from around here now. Not always, but that's how life goes, right bro? You understand that, don't you? Welsh, right?" How….did he know that? What kind of American could possibly know it on sound alone unless they had connections over there, especially in this neighborhood? Ethan looks like a thug- he's a clear mix of ethnicity, bearing ink and dressing like a gangster. He doesn't look like he'd be very smart, but it turns out from that one hint he's more than meets the eye.

"Mick? Ethan. Nice to meet you. What's up? How can I help?" Friendly enough. He extends a fist for a bump, and he isn't taking no for an answer.

What the fuck. What the fuck?

In his career, Mick Rawson had met some strange and honestly fucked up individuals. From a man who traveled around with his sister's rotten corpse, to a generic serial killer who just really, really had a very close and personal sexual connection to his victims.

But this guy…Just freaked him out.

"Yeah. S'Welsh. Surprised you caught that," he's genuine about that, most who heard his accent guessed British (an insult, mind you). He was starting to almost wish he'd just kept on his way, ignored the sound of whatever the fuck they were doing and just went on his own way.

But he didn't exactly have a choice in company now, did he? And this chap did say he knew his way around…

He looked at the fist with a frown. "I'm not touching that, sorry mate. bit of a Germophobe."

A lie of course. But Mick doesn't know where that thing has been.

"…" Ethan, clearly offended by the exclamation, instead lets his hand drop. The friendly demeanor is gone in an instant as if a switch had been flipped. Mick is left facing a rather sullen looking man who might as well have been locked out of his own house in the rain. Who knew refusing a fistbump could end up this badly for both parties? He merely huffs and shakes his head.

"Cool. Fine. But seriously, bro, what you looking for all the way out here? City's that direction. You're in the 'hood, and looking like you do- no offense- is a good way to get shanked. So what can I do for you?" He's not amused, but at least he's giving Mick the time of day.

Problem was, Mick was a man defined by trust issues. He'd just met this man, so anything beyond casual conversation at first was almost too much for him. Hell, perhaps it was just him being a dick.

Still, didn't help that the guy looked like a kicked puppy who was left in the rain. Damn it, you are incredibly terrible at social interaction, aren't you?

"Look, mate, no offense, just 'ave a thing with touching. Bit squeamish, y'know. Uncomfortable, blah blah blah."

"Honestly? I had a call to come out here. Apparently the contact 'asn't shown up, so I've been wanderin' around trying to find a place to get a kip," he looked around. "Not gonna get that out here, am I?"

A terrible lie Ethan picks up on instantly, which is pretty obvious from the look on his face and the faint smirk he gives in response. "Mm…hm. Ok. Yeah, you want a hotel, guy like you? You should get as far out of this part of town as you can. Not everybody here's tolerant of "different," as ironic as that is." He gives fair and honest warning with a faint smile that pushes away the suspicion he holds on account of Mick's abrupt appearance and odd accent.

"Totaled, huh? Well, I don't have a car or any shit like that, but I could walk you somewhere, if that would make you feel better about being down here." He offers it in a somewhat mocking tone not because it doesn't mean he would do it but because he's teasing Mick if the man were to show himself being nervous at all down here, in the shadow of the city.

"I can 'andle myself, thank you."

Bruised ego, he felt it sting hard. He tried hard to keep that stereotype from attaching itself onto him but he couldn't help but be a little offended that this man didn't seem think he could handle himself when push came to shove. Sure has a little malnurished, a bit weak in the upper body and a tiny bit off his practice but put a gun or some kind of bow staff in his hand and he could fend himself off quite well, thank you very much.

But now Ethan's teasing words felt like a challenge.

"But I wouldn't mind the company, 'specially since my job isn't gonna get done down 'ere," he shoved his hands into his pockets, old habit whenever he didn't have something in his hands. "Said your name was Ethan, right?" There we go, get the conversation on to something else.

Hell, he was curious about this man. Mostly because he thought the guy was weird and interesting as hell. Probably couldn't be any worse than the doppelganger, though.

But Mick Rawson had a nasty habit of walking into weird.

"Yeah, that's me." A weak conversation starter is better than nothing at all. "So. Mick. This job's gotta be a pretty damn odd one given…uh, the part of town it's dropped you in. I hope it goes well for you." It's not a threat and it's quite honestly what he's said it to be- a wish for success. Maybe there is honor among those who live here, and maybe his act to scare away strangers is just well-practiced for the sake of image and weeding out those who can't put up some kind of wall against it.

He leads the way without doing so intrusively, his steps cutting the distance between them smaller as he guides so it's almost like how cattle are herded. He understands human movement and body language's clues into it well, apparently. Talk about a useful and dangerous skill for a gangster to have.

"It is an odd job, yes," he agreed, following the other man and watching Ethan with a curiosity he didn't even bother to hide. "I kill people for a living."

He says it so casually it doesn't even phase him. It feels liberating to say, actually. Always coming up with lies, always trying to cover up what he was, that took a lot of of a man. But honestly, he was wanting to see what this man's reaction would be. Maybe it was that old bit of profiler in him. Maybe he just wanted to know what Ethan was all about. "I have conditions to it, of course. But that doesn't exactly condone it, does it?"

At first, Ethan is dead silent. Then, he lets Mick finish and stops walking for a moment, staring with wide eyes. and then? Finally, a response. "…NO WAY! BRO! ME TOO!" As if it were the best connection in the world, the hitman strides forward and bro hugs Mick whether he wants it or not. His strength is crushing and his weight immense- that simply isn't normal for someone of his size. "Dude, that's badass! I never thought I'd so openly meet somebody else who…yeah! WOW, bro, then you've got all the help from me you want. Welcome to Detroit, motherfucker." Ethan backs off, grinning like a kid in a candy store.

Lovely.

Well that was unexpected.

Still, he let Ethan hug him, even if it did cause his back to pop and force a little wheeze out of him. But the openness is just too wonderful to think about. It was a test that went weirdly the unexpected route and honestly the Welshman didn't mind.

"Thank you?" he stuttered out, not exactly sure what to say. "We in the same business then? The whole ah, ordeal, shoot to kill, yadda yadda?"

Strange comfort flooded into him. "'Onestly that's a relief, runnin' into someone else in the business. Never really 'appened before."

Ethan's suddenly cheerful and slightly creepy tones however seem to affect his mood as well, making him smirk. "We should ah, come up with some secret handshake or somethink."

"I don't tend to shoot, but yeah! I like knives, poison, "accidents." I like people not knowing a third party was involved. But I respect snipers and gunmen, bro. Sometimes I break one out myself, but I'm not very good with a rifle from a long distance. Up close I'm alright." He discusses it openly with zero fear of repercussion. If Mick was an undercover cop, well…he'd die before Ethan went in for what he admits. It's happened before, and it hopefully won't happen again. Because Krieg knows he's protected both because of his occasional military and government employers, the fact that he's dead on record, and the simple fact he can handle himself, he doesn't spend much (if any) time concerning himself with the inner workings of what might happen should he run into trouble.

"It's rare, but that's a good thing. Others like us, I mean. We aren't the friendly type, normally. You're different. And I like the idea of a handshake. Hey…speaking of your contact…when's that going down, exactly?"

"Supposed to go down in a few hours, but 'aven't made contact with my client yet," he stretched back, relaxing inch by inch as they spoke. "Client" wasn't that far off from a shady government character, some old bloke who tended to keep his secret affairs well, secret. And the current target, some mediocre dingus who strangely reminded Mick of some actor he'd seen in a movie before. Deciding that working the job alone didn't exactly have the perks of working it with a new friend, Mick dug in his shoulder bag for the file and handed it over.

"You're free to work it with. Wouldn't mind it," he smiled. "Guy kinda reminds me of Danny Devito."

"You mentioned taking a shot- you a sniper type, bro? If you need a spotter, I'm your man. I've got nothing going on and I won't ask for much of a cut if you'd like some company." It's a good offer, and he means it whole-heartedly. After all, what do you call an assassin that accuses other assassins?….**my friend**.

"Danny Devito? Then it will be a pleasure. That guy haunts my dreams sometimes. I'm not explaining why, alright?" Ethan flips through the file, glancing at the picture and giving a bright grimace. "GOD. Are you sure it…ISN'T really him? Because I see no difference at all." He passes it back over when satisfied.

Mick frowned, taking it bakc and flipping the photo of the target at all angles before sliding it back into his file. "Yeah, pretty sure. Doubt a military big shot would be concerned over Danny Devito. Bless him, that man is an icon. Plus look at the mustache, you think Danny Devito would 'ave somethin' that ridiculous on 'is face, mate?"

Real question. Danny Devito was a big thing in Wales. Kinda. Sorta. Mick was just a fanboy.

"And yeah, could consider me a sniper type," if "could consider" was "I was once labeled as the best in my business", then sure, he was a sniper type. But a spotter, yeah that would be something he could use. Cash value of the job wasn't much but he didn't mind a tick about splitting it. "Settled then. If my contact doesn't well, contact, we'll just kill the first thing we see that looks like Danny Devito. Simple enough, really."

"I like that idea. Let's do that. Hey, you need a hotel or you just wanna crash at my place? Honestly, it would be less conspicuous to show up there. Nobody questions people coming and going in the projects, especially if they're connected enough to not be messed with. I'm not much of a cook, though. You've been warned." The offer stands firm and open, and he reconsiders what else Mick has said. "You wanted a nap, right? Well, take one there. I'll review the file and think it all over, and then tonight we can get moving. Sound good? Keep your phone on for a ring from the boss and get some rest where you aren't going to get mugged or…worse."

Hey, in a place like this? It might just happen. He assumes his offer will be taken up, and so with that in mind he motions for Mick to follow him towards a massive but crumbling housing project. For a man who clearly earns money from his kills, he seems to enjoy living in squalor.

"I'd love it. Lead on."

Ah, the beauty of friendship. Or partnership. Either way, he could use the asset. At least he'd taken his things from his car beforehand, he thought as he slung his duffle aside so that it stopped chafing his shoulder and wrapping his fingers around the worn handle of the rifle case he carried and marched on.

Here he was, walking in with a complete stranger who killed people for a living and yet somehow he felt more comfortable with this chap than he did with his doppelganger. Then again, this guy had an excuse to be weird. John Constantine was just a nutball.

"Better than paying for a dirty room and gettin' shitty service, eh?" he said as he patted his side for his phone. Hell, he was excited, he couldn't help it. New friend, possibility of a good job getting done, and the prospect of a bit of food and rest beforehand? Hell yeah.

"Thanks mate, really appreciate it."


	2. Chapter 2

"Yeah, this way you don't have to pay for the slightly dirty room and you get decent service! I'd say that's a step up." Plenty of rest, so long as Ethan doesn't do what Ethan is prone to do and make a move. Here's hoping he can at least keep it in his pants for now. Chances are, though, he's so enamored with making an actual friend that won't be a problem. It's a rare thing for him, and…quite honestly? Mick is already shaping up to be the closest thing to one he's ever truly had. Ethan can bare his soul and not be worried…at least, everything but the darkest corners of his mind. Some of those he hides even from himself.

Ethan leads the way up the stairs and past a broken elevator. The housing complex is dingy and old, but surprisingly free of graffiti. He has a habit of catching as many partaking as possible and forcing them to clean it, which has spread rumors about the crazy guy who does exactly that. People tend to stay away.

Fourth floor, fifth door on the left. It opens to a sparsely furnished space, but it's clean enough. The dudebro has his weight set, of course, over against one wall, bench and all.

He's been in worse.

Hell, it's a lot better than his car, smells nicer too (he has John to thank for that, he's still be unable to get the smell of cigarette smoke out of the seats). Least it looked clean.

He felt awkward as he walked himself in, setting down both his duffle and case just so he can get into his back for more files. "I don't have much, only what I could carry with me. There's a few other files in there if you wanna look at 'em, couple run o' the mill jobs that were low priority versus our man Danny."

He finally got the chance to look around, not impressed but it's good enough, clean enough, and comfortable enough. He can see why Ethan chose it, quiet, roomy. Mick liked it.

"'M not exactly the type to just assume, where you want me to move my stuff?" he just felt awkward, no doubt about it. Kinda realizing the situation has him a bit nervous. Bump into good looking guy, said guy invites you back to his place…

He wasn't uncomfortable, though, so that counted for something.

Ethan can tell exactly what has Mick nervous, but he's too enamored with the concept of**friendship!** right now to add the benefits part onto the end. That comes later. Maybe. Hopefully. He'll make it happen, knowing him.

"The couch is a fold-out. It's all yours, unless you really have an urge to share my bed." There's definite humor in his voice, but, hey- he isn't saying no. Whether the offer was meant to be real or not is up to Mick's interpretation, but Ethan doesn't expect him to do more than laugh. The Traceur does exactly that and then moves away to the kitchen. "Can I offer you water or something? I don't…really have anything else. I'm sober and I've got, like…almond milk."  
How exciting.

He snorted. "You offerin'?"

He smirked, eyebrow raised and brown eyes quickly scanning up and down. Maybe some day. Hell, maybe this was what he needed to move on from Prophet. A new friend, that was. Or boyfriend. Or just friends. Just friend. Friends. **Friendship**, right.

But that was still a raw sort of spot to rub out. Even after all these years…

"'M fine with the couch," he looked around before rubbing his face and making his way over before just nearly toppling over on it, not even bothering with the pull-out and not caring that he had to roll his feet up against it.

"I don't drink much anyway, s'it's fine," he waved him off and yawned, arching back until he was relaxed. He could use a few hours, honestly. All he hoped was that Ethan had some brand of coffee. Caffeine addictions didn't exactly do so well when you were deprived. "Mind waking me if the phone rings? Might not hear it. Deep sleeper, y'know?"

Friendship. Benefits are possible. But **friendship** is important. God knows they both need it. Ethan, quite frankly, craves it like a drug at this point. Talk about one way to get him addicted.

"Yeah, I've got it covered. Knock yourself out." Ethan slips off to the closet in his bedroom and returns with blankets, sheets, and a clean pillowcase, all of which are set neatly folded on the surface of the couch itself. "The lever thing is on the side…right there." He leans over and flicks it to show, popping the mechanism loose. "You're smart. You've got this. I'll be in my room. Mind if I take your phone and files in there? Promise I won't rack up overseas calling charges." His grin is small and his joke is just that, but somehow it doesn't seem beyond something he might do.

"Take all you need," he muttered, not even really caring what Ethan did with his stuff so long as he didn't break it. A yawn, stretch, and a roll over had him so comfortable he even let out a small hum in satisfaction.

It felt good to close his eyes.

But then that usually wonderful and once very well received tone of the Divinyls had forced him to sigh softly, knowing very well who could be calling.

"Mind getting that for me, mate?" he called out, not even wanting to really deal with it.

But then again, money was always a good thing.

Still, fucking ridiculous. Of all the fucking times to call, it was the time he was about ti finally nod off. Fuck. Oh well, least it was finally time to work. And build more**~*friendship*~**!

Nice…ringtone." Ethan snorts in laughter and then reaches for it, flipping it open to answer with a casual greeting. "Hello- you've reached Mick Rawson's number. He's currently in a disheveled state of dress on the couch. Can I take a message?" His tone is light and airy, like that a secretary might have.

"I meant give it to me you plonker," Mick grumbled, flinging his arm around in an attempt to get Ethan's attention to hand him the phone. Though he has to admit, the voice Ethan use was kinda funny.

But work was very important. Just as important as friendship. Rolling off in a messy heap and nearly toppling over, sighing through his nostrils before taking his phone back. "Allo. Mmm. Never said anything about a bird. 'F you want 'er it'll cost extra, mate. Right. cheers."

Flipping it closed he smirked. "Says the old man'll be out 'round the corner of 5th and 6th, contact's boys'll be drawin' 'em out. We just take the shot, boom, get the quid."

"You ready to kill Danny Devito?"

"Yes. Let's." Ethan grabs Mick by the elbow once he has his gear and simply yanks him out of the door, just shy of skipping, honestly. Ethan grabbed no weapons, but assuming the man is unarmed would be a horrific mistake. Eventually he sees the necessity of slowing his pace, but it takes until the ground floor for that to happen. Hopefully Mick doesn't mind running down stairs. The hitman glances at his hands, curious for the moment in a blister to see how close to healing it is. Unsatisfied, he reaches for a pocket on his cargo pants and removes gloves, very specifically made for his art. The index and middle fingers are complete, but all of the others only go to the last knuckle. The grips are smooth and the brilliant red accents run along otherwise black surfaces. They suit him well. Mick has his gun, Ethan has his…parkour. So be it.

"Really, though. You ever watch Always Sunny?"

"Have I watched-" Mick wheezed, finally managing to slowly catch his breath. He ran down the stairs. four. Flights. Of. Stairs. "Thought you'd…know by now. I 'ave a…a thing for Danny Devito."

That sounded better in his head.

"What you doing there?" he asked as he watched Ethan…suit up. "Waitaminute are we running there? 'Cause I can list a coupl'a reasons why we can't do that."

Mostly it was because he just hated running. The whole out of shape thing plus a lack of coordination well, that didn't make for a good jogging buddy. But then again, Ethan knew these streets. If he knew a way to get there by foot, well…

"Fuck it. Lead on."

"A thing for him? Hope you don't like roleplay in bed, then." Ethan quips right back without hesitation or remorse, moving on to the next subject as easily as if he had never diverted to an awkward topic at all. "Come on, bro! Let's get moving!" Not very happy with having to walk, the Traceur puts up with it for Mick's sake. Ethan is quick and smooth in motion, the grace with which he maneuvers a product of practice and care more than an attempt to look beautiful while doing it. It's like a leopard balancing on a branch to get water and then jumping across a stream- while it's gorgeous to watch, the animal isn't concerned with how they look when doing it. They want the practicality, and it's the same with any true Traceur or Traceuse.

He keeps a brisk pace, though, already plotting how to get up the building. The blocks pass quickly, and if Mick doesn't beg him to stop he isn't going to slow an inch. Soon, the building is in sight. Now, how to get up? Ethan has an idea, but he looks to Mick incredulously.  
"Ok, Mr. Sniper. This is my shit, but…how the fuck do you do your job if you can't get up there?"

"You can take the stairs like a normal person. Or you can take the fire escape. Either way is fine, but you're alone in it." Ethan gives a little wink before abruptly turning his back, eyeing the fire escape…and running forward with a bounding leap that isn't quite possible. His stride is long and his range large, the first bound forward covering distance over height but the second sending him shooting up as if he had springs in his heels. His hands snag the raining of the first platform of the fire escape, and he draws himself up and over without an issue to snap down the ladder so Mick can reach it and climb up. The acrobatic display doesn't even draw a sweat.

Soon, he's scurrying up the building as only he truly can, quite like something out of a video game. His motions are fluid and smooth as he uses the railing of each level of the fire escape to draw up, forgoing the stairs for an outside approach as if stairs were lava and the only option were to get creative. There's no doubt that he beats Mick to the rooftop.

"Fuckin' show off."

Still, it was kinda impressive. But there was no way Mick would have ever been able to do that. That took a bit more effort than he was willing to give.

Least Ethan dropped the ladder. Having a partner did seem to make things easier. Usually he'd have to figure out how to get the damn things himself, which usually involved embarrassing amounts of boxes. Climbing the escape wasn't his favorite thing either, the world would be a much better place if there were no stairs.

Still, better than no building at all.

When he finally clamored up to the roof he wasn't surprised that Ethan had easily beaten him. Dude was fast. "Right, let's set up, yeah?"

"Yup." Ethan is sitting cross-legged near the proper edge of the building, apparently having either an internal compass going on or a very good idea of direction in this city. For a man who has only lived here for a few months, it would take a lot to be that good. Then again, Ethan is hardly the normal subject.

"So…you said there." Ethan stands and points down at the building's entrance across the street. "There are no A/V feeds in our way here, so nothing will record us unless some kid with a camcorder pops out a window. We can't control that shit, anyway, so it's best not to worry, right? No security cameras up here, and none that work down there. They'll figure out the angle with forensics, so we wipe up here and on the railing to destroy fingerprints…unless you remembered gloves?" Ethan has his own on, but it's worth noting that only two fingers are covered completely. The others are free. So what's his beef about fingerprints, then? Not really thinking ahead, is he?  
Well…it isn't like they're going to expect someone to get up the way he did, anyway. He'll take his chances. He's a dead man, anyway.

Mm, his SD was a beautiful little piece of metal and gunpowder.

It takes him less than a few moments to set up. scope, barrel, magazine, each piece assembled with a professional sort of dedication that makes Mick a little bit more than prideful. There were snipers, and then there was Mick Rawson. And damn if it didn't still make him feel good.

"Prints we wont 'ave to worry about," he said as he set his rifle meticulously on the edge of the building, admiring the beautiful gun for a few moments before flashing a hand at Ethan to show him the faux leather gloves. "Great thing about long range, don't 'ave to worry 'bout GSR either. Was once part of the FBI, generally picked up a thing or two on 'ow to run my business."

"As far as getting seen, generally, people don't look up."

"…See, this is why I don't do what you do. With the guns, and all that shit." Descriptive, Ethan. Descriptive. But the man has his own trade, so it isn't like he's completely in the dark. He does well in his own fields of choice, and with both respecting the other's expertise they'd quite honestly be a very effective team. Rawson and Krieg? Sounds alright together. Ethan hums in amusement at the idea, then kicks at a fast food cup lying empty on its side near his feet. He then positions himself to the right of where Mick is setting up, dropping to rest nonchalantly in a crossed-leg position like an eager grade school child.

"You were FBI, huh? Shit, bro. Those fuckers had a hand in what happened to…oh." Mick…doesn't know about the whole cyborg thing. He'd better play that off fast. "I got shot bad. Went to prison. They took me down." That works.

"I wasn't in the whole hunt down shoot shoot sort of portion. Was a profiler, analyzed behavior, rarely used my gun unless it was needed, you know? My ah, boss was a bit of a pacifist. Religious bloke, preferred our unsubs alive ad unharmed. Was Interpol before that, s'where I went through training." He was more or less surprised Ethan didn't question a Welshman in an American federal bureau. Generally that was the first thing anyone every questions. Honestly, it was nice not to get that question for once.

Satisfied with his set up he finally sat down, relaxing as best he could against the smell wall and let out a huff. "S'Just what I'm good at, y'know?"

He looked at Ethan with a frown. "M'sorry. Musta been rough for you."

Ethan knows that what he needs to find out will be told to him. He's also pretty pleased Mick hasn't made a racial jab or attempt at stating what he is yet, like basically everyone has proven themselves prone to do. At this point he tends to just let out a barking laugh and then pop a piece of gum in his mouth, chewing intently while staring down whoever it was until they grow so uncomfortable they generally mutter an apology. Whatever works.

"Ah, I deserved it. I'm a fucking prick, bro." Ethan snickers under his breath before tapping the spot on his back by reaching over the shoulder with his opposite arm. "Nice scar, back there. I've been shot twice, but that one almost killed me. Just a few inches from my heart, apparently. It…was not a good situation. But I did my time and I got out…and here I am." Getting out might not..mean what it sounds like. And that timing wouldn't make sense. If he did something bad enough to get shot and "did his time," he wasn't exonerated or acquitted. So…how, exactly?  
Probably not something to ask.

"What works for you, I guess."

Mick had no room to judge. Not with how dark and dirty his life had gone over the past couple of years. 2011 was still a raw time for him. But it wasn't important now.

If he had to be honest, he didn't really care what Ethan had done in his past. Okay, maybe he was a little curious, but why did it matter to him when there was a job to do? Maybe because Ethan was his friend (his friend, woo, that made him all tingly). But it wasn't his business.

If Ethan ever brought it up, he'd listen. But Mick's time dealing with behavior and building up a profile told him Ethan had barely scratched the surface about him. Still, best to let him open up on his own time, if he ever did. And well, Mick wasn't a flaming asshole.

"Somehow I've kept myself from bein' locked a good thing. Most of what I do I don't even get to keep. The quid? Most of it goes to my sister back 's all I've got now, really. Gives me ah, a little bit of a feeling that what I do isn't just some bloody last resort for a fuck up."

That sounded a little bitter. Calm down, Micky.

"We've all got our ghosts. No problem with that."

"Yeah." Ethan doesn't have much to say, but the words have told him enough. Living where he does, he hears and witnesses a lot of rough domestic situations. He's considered leaping in a few times, but he's never actually done so. That might be a weakness of character or it might be his inability to do anything without drawing too much attention to himself. His one-man crusade to keep his building graffiti free does enough of that, God knows. He taps his fingers on the rooftop's cement in silence for a moment, then points.

"Incoming. Hey…Jesus, bro, are…are you sure that ISN'T Danny Devito? It looks just LIKE him! Man!" Ethan pulls a scope out of his pocket, flicking to daylight settings before holding it up to one eye, the other closing. He trails in and studies the figure before whistling. "I swear, that's his double."

"It's not fucking Danny Devito!" He almost shouts it, slapping a hand over his mouth and cursing himself for being an absolute moron. "Bollocks."

Grabbing his rifle and holding it like a newborn child, he nearly stumbles over to get to where Ethan is peering out with the scope, squinting down at the target the other man points out before whistling. "Well maybe. Shit. Even from here he looks like friggin' Devito."

"Right then. Y'wanna take him now or give it a sec? 'Cause I can't see if 'e's alone or what and if I take the shot 'ere's a chance some bloody ah, body guard or somethin' will catch 'em. Y'never know. S'your call, Spotter."

Ethan snorts in unabashed laughter and lowers the scope to look at Micks' face just to gloat for a moment. He pauses before taking a second look, raising the small handheld scope again and trailing in.

"I swear to God, bro, that's gotta be him. Let's wait, like…twelve seconds. He's on the phone, look. He's calling a ride, maybe? Yeah- I bet so. He doesn't have a car waiting for him. Why else would he be out front?" He bites his lower lip, then gives a nod. "Danny Devito or not, shot's open, Sniper."

"Shot's open" were probably the Welshman's number one favorite set of words.

Kneeling down and resting his stand on the low wall, brown eye peering through the scope, Mick took a second to orient the gun before pointing it right at "Devito's" back.

Three.

Two.

Inhale.

One.

**Bang.**

Solid shot through the back, clean, quick, dead.

"Yes," Mick mutters, though it almost sounds like "yas" with how excited he is. In a small celebration Mick smirks, lifting his rifle and bending back the stand. "That's the dog's bollocks right there, mate. Bloody brilliant."

Ethan lets Mick revel in his victory before grinning and punching the man lightly in the shoulder. "WELL done. That's a damn good shot, bro. I'm impressed." He raises the scope to take a closer look…and he mutters. "Uh…Mick?…I think this might be a bad time to bring up the question of…why Danny Devito would be in gangland Detroit. Because that's fucking Danny Devito. Look at his wrist. On the watch, engraved." Jesus, his scope is strong. He passes it over so Mick doesn't have to use his rifle again, and sure enough, engraved around the rim is a very specific name.

"Bro…I think we just killed Danny Devito. Oh my fucking god. RUN!" He nabs the scope back and slides it away into its built-in case in his pocket (he's prepared for this kind of thing frequently- it's his favorite tool) and motions for Mick to move quickly. "We just killed a film icon!"  
And this is how the best partnerships are formed.


End file.
